He retired. A single candle on the table shone on the bed. I sat down in the chair the priest had just left and again uncovered those features I was to see for the last time.

"What do you wish to say to me, father?" I asked. "What was your last thought concerning your child?"

My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to day the record of his life. That book lay on the table and I saw that it was open; I kneeled before it; on the open page were these words and no more:

"Adieu, my son, I love you and I die."

I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollen and my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving.

He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow and anxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies. His advice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influenced my entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and kindness. I supposed that before dying he wished to see me, to try once more to turn me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly; he felt that he could express all he had to say in one word and he wrote in his book that he loved me.

CHAPTER II

A SMALL wooden railing was placed around my father's grave. According to his expressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery. Every day I visited his tomb and pa.s.sed part of the day on a little bench in the interior of the vault. The rest of the time I lived alone in the house in which he died and I kept with me only one servant.

Whatever sorrows the pa.s.sions may cause, the woes of life are not to be compared with those of death. My first thought, as I sat beside my father's bedside, was that I was a helpless child, knowing nothing, understanding nothing; I can not say that my heart felt physical pain, but I sometimes bent over and wrung my hands as one who wakens from a long sleep.

During the first months of my life in the country I had no thought of either the past or the future. It did not seem to be I who had lived up to that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no way resembled the terrible grief I had experienced in the past; there was a sort of languor in every action, a sense of fatigue with all of life, a poignant bitterness that was eating out my heart. I held a book in my hand all day long but I did not read, I did not even know what I dreamed about. I had no thoughts; within, all was silence; I had received such a violent blow, and yet one that was so prolonged in its effect, that I remained a purely pa.s.sive being and there seemed to be no reaction.

My servant, Larive by name, had been much attached to my father; he was, after my father himself, probably the best man I have ever known. He was the same height and wore the clothes my father had left him, having no livery.

He was about the same age, that is, his hair was turning gray, and during the twenty years he had lived with my father, he had learned some of his ways. While I was pacing up and down the room after dinner, I heard him doing the same in the hall; although the door was open, he did not enter and not a word was spoken; but from time to time we would look at each other and weep. The entire evening would pa.s.s thus, and it would be late in the night before I would ask for a light, or get one myself.

Everything about the house was left unchanged, not a piece of paper was moved. The great leather armchair in which my father sat, stood near the fire; his table and his books, just as he left them; I respected even the dust on these articles, which in life, he never liked to see disturbed.

The walls of that solitary house, accustomed to silence and the most tranquil life, seemed to look down on me in pity as I sat in my father's chair, enveloped in his dressing-gown. A feeble voice seemed to whisper: "Where is the father? It is plain to see that this is an orphan."

I received several letters from Paris and replied to each that I desired to pa.s.s the summer alone in the country, as my father was accustomed to do. I began to realize that in all evil there is some good, and that sorrow, whatever else may be said of it, is a means of repose. Whatever the message brought by those who are sent by G.o.d, they always accomplish the happy result of awakening us from the sleep of the world, and when they speak, all are silent. Pa.s.sing sorrows blaspheme and accuse Heaven; great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme, they listen.

In the morning, I pa.s.sed entire hours in the contemplation of nature. My windows overlooked a valley in the midst of which arose the village steeple; all was plain and calm. Spring, with its budding leaves and flowers, did not produce on me the sinister effect of which the poets speak, who find in the contrasts of life the mockery of death. I looked upon that frivolous idea, if it was serious and not a simple ant.i.thesis made in pleasantry, as the conceit of a heart that has known no real experience. The gambler who leaves the table at break of day, his eyes burning and hands empty, may feel that he is at war with nature like the torch at some hideous vigil; but what can the budding leaves say to a child who mourns a lost father? The tears of his eyes are sisters of the rose; the leaves of the willow are themselves tears. It is when I look at the sky, the woods and the prairies, that I understand men who seek consolation.

Larive had no more desire to console me than to console himself. At the time of my father's death he feared I would sell the property and take him to Paris. I did not know what he had learned of my past life, but I had noticed his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down in the old home, he gave me a glance that went to my heart. One day I had a large portrait of my father sent from Paris, and placed it in the dining-room. When Larive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked at the portrait, and then at me, in his eyes there shone a melancholy joy that I could not fail to understand. It seemed to say: "What happiness!

We are to suffer here in peace!"

I gave him my hand which he covered with tears and kisses.

He looked upon my grief as the mistress of his own. When I visited my father's tomb in the morning I found him there watering the flowers; when he saw me he went away and returned home. He followed me in my rambles; when I was on my horse I did not expect him to follow me, but when I saw him trudging down the valley, wiping the sweat from his brow, I bought a small horse from a peasant and gave it to him; thus we rode through the woods together.

In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequently visited my father. My door was closed to them, although I regretted it; but I could not see any one, with patience. Some time, when sure to be free from interruption, I hoped to examine my father's papers. Finally, Larive brought them to me, and untying the package with trembling hand, spread them before me.

Upon reading the first pages, I felt in my heart that vivifying freshness that characterizes the air near a lake of cool water; the sweet serenity of my father's soul exhaled as a perfume from the dusty leaves I was unfolding. The journal of his life lay open before me; I could count the diurnal throbbings of that n.o.ble heart. I began to yield to the influence of a dream that was both sweet and profound, and in spite of the serious firmness of his character, I discovered an ineffable grace, the flower of kindness. While I read, the recollection of his death mingled with the narrative of his life, I can not tell with what sadness I followed that limpid stream until its waters mingled with those of the ocean.

"Oh! just man," I cried, "fearless and stainless! what candor in thy experience! Thy devotion to thy friends, thy admiration for nature, thy sublime love of G.o.d, this is thy life, there is no place in thy heart for anything else. The spotless snow on the mountain's summit is not more pure than thy saintly old age, thy white hair resembles it. Oh! father, father! Give thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than my blond head.

Let me live and die as thou hast lived and died. I wish to plant in the soil over your grave the green branch of my young life, I will water it with my tears, and the G.o.d of orphans will protect that sacred twig nourished by the grief of youth and the memory of age."

After having read these precious papers I cla.s.sified them and arranged them in order. I formed a resolution to write a journal myself. I had one made just like that of my father's, and, carefully searching out the minor details of his life, I tried to conform my life to his. Thus whenever I heard the clock strike the hour, tears came to my eyes: "This," said I, "is what my father did at this hour," and whether it was reading, walking, or eating, I never failed to follow his example. Thus I accustomed myself to a calm and regular life; there was an indefinable charm about this orderly life that did me good. I went to bed with a sense of comfort and happiness, such as I had not known for a long time.

My father spent much of his time about the garden; the rest of the day was devoted to walking and study, a nice adjustment of bodily and mental exercise.

At the same time, I followed his example in doing little acts of benevolence among the unfortunate. I began to search for those who were in need of my a.s.sistance, and there were many of them in the valley. I soon became known among the poor; my message to them was: "When the heart is good, sorrow is sacred!" For the first time in my life I was happy, G.o.d blessed my tears, and sorrow taught me virtue.

CHAPTER III

ONE evening, as I was walking under a row of linden-trees on the outskirts of the village, I saw a young woman come from a house some distance from the road. She was dressed simply and veiled so that I could not see her face; but her form and her carriage seemed so charming that I followed her with my eyes for some time. As she was crossing a field, a white goat, running at liberty through the gra.s.s, ran to her side; she caressed it softly, and looked about as though searching for some favorite herb to feed it. I saw near me some wild mulberry; I plucked a branch and stepped up to her holding it in my hand. The goat watched my approach with apprehension; he was afraid to take the branch from my hand. His mistress made a sign as though to encourage him, but he looked at her with an air of anxiety; she then took the branch from my hand and the goat promptly accepted it from hers. I bowed, and she pa.s.sed on her way.

On my return home, I asked Larive if he knew who lived in the house I described to him; it was a small house, modest in appearance, with a garden. He recognized it; there were but two people in the house, an old woman who was very religious, and a young woman whose name was Madame Pierson. It was she I had seen. I asked him who she was and if she ever came to see my father. He replied that she was a widow, that she led a retired life, and that she had visited my father, but rarely. When I had learned all he knew, I returned to the lindens and sat down on a bench.

I do not know what feeling of sadness came over me as I saw the goat approaching me. I arose from my seat, and, for distraction, I followed the path I had seen Madame Pierson take, a path that led to the mountains.

It was nearly eleven in the evening before I thought of returning; as I had walked some distance, I directed my steps toward a farmhouse, intending to ask for some milk and bread. Drops of rain began to splash at my feet, announcing a thunder-shower which I was anxious to escape.

Although there was a light in the house and I could hear the sound of feet going and coming through the house, no one responded to my knock, and I walked around to one of the windows to ascertain if there was any one within.

I saw a bright fire burning in the lower hall; the farmer, whom I knew, was sitting near his bed; I knocked on the window-pane and called to him.

Just then the door opened and I was surprised to see Madame Pierson, who inquired who was there.

I waited a moment, in order to conceal my astonishment. I then entered the house and asked permission to remain until the storm should pa.s.s. I could not imagine what she was doing at such an hour in this deserted spot; suddenly, I heard a plaintive voice from the bed, and turning my head, I saw the farmer's wife lying there with the mark of death on her face.

Madame Pierson, who had followed me, sat down before the old man who was bowed down with sorrow; she made me a sign to make no noise as the sick woman was sleeping. I took a chair and sat in a corner until the storm pa.s.sed.

While I sat there, I saw her rise from time to time and whisper something to the farmer. One of the children, whom I took upon my knee, said that she came every night since the mother's illness. She performed the duties of a sister of charity--there was no one else in the country who could do it; there was but one physician, and he was very inferior.

"That is Brigitte la Rose," said the child; "do you not know her?"

"No," I replied in a low voice. "Why do you call her by such a name?"

He replied that he did not know, unless it was because she had been rosy and the name had clung to her.

As Madame Pierson had laid aside her veil, I could see her face; when the child left me I raised my head. She was standing near the bed, holding in her hand a cup which she was offering the sick woman, who had awakened.

She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond. Her beauty was not of the regular type. How shall I express it? Her large, dark eyes were fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes, that shone with approaching death, returned her gaze. There was, in that simple exchange of kindness and grat.i.tude, a beauty that can not be described.

The rain was falling in torrents; a heavy darkness settled over the lonely mountain-side, pierced by occasional flashes of lightning. The noise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the wrath of the unchained elements, made a deep contrast with the religious calm which prevailed in the little cottage. I looked at the wretched bed, at the broken windows, the puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tempest, I observed the helpless despair of the farmer, the superst.i.tious terror of the children, the fury of the elements besieging the bed of death; and when, in the midst of all that, I saw that gentle, pale-faced woman, going and coming, bravely meeting the duties of the moment regardless of the tempest, and of our presence, it seemed to me there was in that calm performance something more serene than the most cloudless sky, and that there was something superhuman about this woman who, surrounded by such horrors, did not for an instant, lose her faith in G.o.d.

What woman is this, I wondered; whence comes she and how long has she been here? A long time since, they remember when her cheeks were rosy.

How is it I have never heard of her? She comes to this spot alone, and at this hour? Yes, she has traversed these mountains and valleys through storm and fair weather, she goes. .h.i.ther and thither, bearing life and hope wherever they fail, holding in her hand that fragile cup, caressing her goat as she pa.s.ses. And this is what has been going on in this valley while I have been dining and gambling; she was probably born here, and will be buried in a corner of the cemetery, by the side of her father.

Thus will that obscure woman die, a woman of whom no one speaks and of whom the children say: "Do you not know her?"

I can not express what I experienced; I sat quietly in my corner, scarcely breathing, and it seemed to me that if I had tried to a.s.sist her, if I had reached out my hand to spare her a single step, I would have been guilty of sacrilege, I would have touched sacred vessels.

The storm lasted two hours. When it subsided, the sick woman sat up in her bed and said that she felt better, that the medicine she had taken had done her good. The children ran to the bedside, looking up into their mother's face with great eyes that expressed both surprise and joy.

"I am very sure you are well," said the husband, who had not stirred from his seat, "for we have had a ma.s.s celebrated, and it cost us a large sum."

At that coa.r.s.e and stupid expression, I glanced at Madame Pierson; her swollen eyes, her pallor, her att.i.tude, all clearly expressed fatigue and the exhaustion of long vigils.

"Ah! my poor man!" said the farmer's wife, "may G.o.d reward you!"